


Patience, Persistence, and Perspiration

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Deepthroating, Held Down, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: “I’m skeptical that you know how to take your time.” Not that Rog hadn’t tried to instruct him. No matter how many times the lesson was repeated, it seemed an area where Ecthelion was largely unequipped to excel.
Still, Ecthelion made an offended noise. “You’ve been the beneficiary of at least half the times I’ve managed to!”
“Hmm.” Rog pretended thoughtfulness. “I don’t seem to recall that.”
No one could project wounded dignity like Ecthelion. “I don’t know why I waste my talents on you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calicoprofessor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=calicoprofessor).



> An incredibly belated birthday fic for [calicoprofessor](http://calicoprofessor.tumblr.com), whose Rog is my favorite Rog (of whom this is probably a poor facsimile).
> 
> Please enjoy this smutty smut. <3

“Can we adjourn to the bedroom?”

Rog caught Ecthelion’s wrist and pulled him back with very little effort, his arm dropping around Ecthelion’s waist to hem him in. “No. Why are you in such a hurry?”

It seemed like a stupid question, given impatience was one of Ecthelion’s defining traits. He supposed Rog really meant that there was no reason they had to be in the _bedroom_ , specifically. He pressed up against him and tried to look winsome. “The rug’s nicer in there.”

Rog snorted. “The wine’s in here.” He lounged back against the wall, looking disinclined to move.

“The wine is portable, and the rug is gentler on my knees.” Ecthelion batted his eyelashes. Rog just looked wryly amused.

“If that’s the issue, your knees have handled far less forgiving surfaces than this floor. You’re getting soft on me.” Rog grinned in a way that said he knew perfectly well the joke he was setting up, but Ecthelion took the bait anyway, grinding against him in an illustrative fashion.

“Rather the opposite.” Then, somewhat reproachfully, “ I’m not going soft, but I’m not made of stone either. I intend to take my _time_.”

Rog smiled with the slightest hint of teeth. “Oh, it’s that sort of night, is it?”

Ecthelion balanced against him, standing on tiptoe to pluck the wineskin out of his hand, then danced out of Rog’s grip, backing towards the bedroom in a clear request to be chased. “Any night can be that sort of night, if you play your cards right.”

Rog’s smile widened, though he stayed put. “ _Any_ night? I doubt that. What about when that vintner you’d been working on for weeks finally made up her mind to go home with you? Or when you had to—”

“Any night,” Ecthelion said firmly, some aggravation in his tone, “with the caveat that if you take me up on the offer at a less-than-ideal time, I _will_ get my recompense.” Since he hadn’t been pursued, he darted back in with the intention of stealing Rog’s goblet as well—but Rog caught him by the back of the neck, set the goblet on the mantle, and plucked the wineskin out of Ecthelion’s hand, all with only half his attention.

“I’m skeptical that you know _how_ to take your time.” Not that Rog hadn’t tried to instruct him. No matter how many times the lesson was repeated, it seemed an area where Ecthelion was largely unequipped to excel.

Still, Ecthelion made an offended noise. “You’ve been the beneficiary of at least half the times I’ve managed to!”

“Hmm.” Rog reached out and drummed fingers against the top of his head in mocking, pretended thoughtfulness—at least until Ecthelion hissed at him and knocked his hand away. “I don’t seem to recall that.”

No one could project wounded dignity like Ecthelion. “I don’t know why I waste my talents on you.”

Rog pressed a thumb against his lips, and he parted them automatically, before he recalled that he was sulking. He bit down for good measure, but not very hard, and Rog only chuckled. “I wasn’t questioning your talents, only the speed at which you use them.”

Ecthelion took that as an apology, whether it was meant to be one or not; in response he did something evocative with his tongue that would have been better applied a few feet lower. Rog caught him by the chin and then dragged him close with the other hand, nearly lifting him off his feet to adjust for the height difference, flicking the thumb aside to kiss him roughly. Ecthelion threw himself into it, his eagerness making his promises to take his time extremely suspect.

Of course, if called on it, he would have argued that this was cheating on Rog’s part. Ecthelion was almost embarrassingly susceptible to being manhandled, and Rog knew it.

Rog pushed him back after a long moment, holding him by the shoulders to keep him in check. “Still think you can take your time?” Not an apology, then, by the smirk on his face.

“Try me,” Ecthelion growled.

Rog considered him for a long moment, then reclaimed his goblet from the mantel and drained it slowly. Ecthelion waited with barely-contained impatience, aware that he was being intentionally provoked; thankfully his stubbornness outweighed his need for instant gratification, if only just. At last Rog set the empty cup aside and pushed slowly off the wall, giving Ecthelion a look like a hound about to be set loose on its quarry.

_That_ was more like it.

Ecthelion backed towards the bedroom without looking away, putting his back obligingly against the door while he fumbled with the doorknob so that Rog could pin him against it. He enjoyed that for a moment before twisting the knob, letting himself fall through without the least fear that he wouldn’t be caught.

The rug in question was near the fireplace; he towed Rog there by his shirtfront, pushing him down into a chair. Of course, he couldn’t make Rog go anywhere he didn’t want to, but Rog let himself be moved with the faint, amused expression that said he was humoring him. The way he sprawled carelessly in the chair, all smug leonine confidence, made Ecthelion want to devour him.

Well. Even more than before, anyway.

Ecthelion shed his tunic slowly and deliberately, making sure he was being watched—he knew exactly where to stand so the firelight gilded his skin, and how to show his arms and shoulders to best advantage as it came over his head. Rog’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t comment; he did, however, palm himself idly through his trousers, which Ecthelion counted as a small victory. He folded down gracefully to kneel in front of the chair, holding Rog’s gaze.

He took his time unfastening Rog’s embroidered belt, then sat back on his heels, using it as a wrap to tie his braids back out of his face. Then he grinned, leaning forward to drape himself between Rog’s knees, and pushed Rog’s hand aside. Rog shifted to accommodate him, elbows and knees spread wide, leaning back with an air of casual but absolute command. Ecthelion closed his eyes briefly against the image, drawing a breath, then opened them again and went to work.

One hand unlaced while the other teased, stroking and pressing him all-too-lightly through the fabric; by the time he drew out Rog’s cock, he was hard and ready, another (not so small) victory. He dragged the head lightly down against his bottom lip, considering how he wanted to begin.

This _was_ Ecthelion’s field of advantage. He’d learned breath control and firm lips as a youth, at the perfectly innocent pastime of flute-playing—but he’d discovered early on what other activities benefited from such skills, and been so gratified by the reputation they earned him that he’d made a special point of finding out what else he could do. And that was many centuries ago, now.

All of which was to say—this was perhaps the only area where his skills _outpaced_ his ego. The question was not how to make it good, but how to make it _last_. Rog could hold out quite a big longer than Ecthelion had ever managed, which helped, but he was trying to prove a point here, which meant he had to outlast Rog’s _patience_.

He started easy, but didn’t tease. Teasing ramped up too quickly—there was only _tease_ and then _delivery_ , with so little room to linger in between. Besides, anyone could tease; it was easy to give too little until it was too much. It took skill to give _just enough_.

He was exceedingly clever with his tongue, but he also had a musician’s hands, and tended to employ them in wicked combinations. Rog seemed to appreciate them, at least—at some point his head dropped back against the chair, his hips sliding forward until he was at the very edge of the seat. Ecthelion wanted to swallow him down then and there, but he held himself back.

What he did, instead, was get a good rhythm going. But every time Rog started to get a little too into it, he would change it just slightly: switch hands; or go from kitten licks over all the sensitive spots to bobbing downwards, cheeks hollowed out with suction; or drag the flat of his tongue all the way from balls to crown before starting again. He could read Rog’s breaths with the precision of a musician’s ear—the long, hard exhales were his favorite, signs that it was time to change his method, but the little frustrated huffs when he did so were a close second.

He built up that way as long as he could stand it, but it couldn’t go on forever. He was achingly hard himself, and while he could have freed a hand to deal with that, he didn’t want it to be his own hand bringing him off tonight. Better escalate, if he wanted relief any time soon.

He waited a good deal longer before disrupting things this time. He could feel Rog’s thighs start to tense where they bracketed him, his fingers flexing on the arms of the chair, and Ecthelion knew if he continued it would be over very shortly indeed.

So he stopped.

“ _Ecthelion_.” Rog’s warning growl raised goosebumps, sparking down his spine and making the room feel far too hot, but he pointedly ignored the implicit demand. It was difficult—Rog was breathing hard, and when Ecthelion went back to what he’d been doing (at half the speed this time), he groaned in a way that sent all the remaining blood in Ecthelion’s body surging down to his cock. But there was a score to be settled. Rog had to be the one to crack, for once.

Much to his relief, he did not have to wait long. Rog said his name again—this time, hissed dangerously between his teeth—and fisted a hand in the braids at the nape of his neck, using the hold to press him down just a little. It was a warning, but it was also a concession, and Ecthelion was gleefully smug about it. He rolled his eyes up to meet Rog’s gaze again, relaxed his throat, and took him in to the root.

Rog hissed and swore; his grip on Ecthelion’s braids tightened again, and then he was lifting his hips, thrusting into Ecthelion’s mouth, pushed past the breaking point of his patience. Ecthelion rippled his tongue, worked his throat around him the best he could—Rog was sizable, in both length and girth, though it was a challenge Ecthelion very much liked to take on.

He’d done his work well. It took only a few more thrusts before Rog's other hand came up to hold his head, more gently than the one wound in his braids; and then he was spilling hot down Ecthelion's throat, groaning his release. Ecthelion eased back once he was finished, and Rog slumped heavily back into the chair.

There was stillness for a moment, stillness and ragged breathing and the occasional popping of logs in the grate. Rog’s breathing slowed and evened; Ecthelion’s less so, hard and wanting as he still was. No surprise that Ecthelion was the first to move, lifting his head from where it rested on Rog’s thigh to look up at him, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

Rog’s voice was a cat’s purr—well, a jaguar’s purr, perhaps—deep and husky and sonorous, and too pleased for any prey-animal to rest easy. “You’re smiling like you don’t think you’ll get your just deserts.”

Ecthelion propped his chin against Rog’s knee, the smile growing cheekier. “I very much hope that I will.”

“That,” Rog said, lifting the other leg to set the tip of his boot against Ecthelion’s chest, pushing him gently back until he had room to stand, “is because we have very different ideas about what you deserve.”

Ecthelion gazed up at him for a moment, undaunted—well, was he ever?—then knelt forward, wrapping an arm around Rog’s calf. He used it as leverage to stand also, sliding all the way up Rog’s body. “Do we? The way I see it, I’ve just given you very fair service indeed.”

“Certainly.” Ecthelion liked the way Rog’s laugh rumbled through him where they were pressed together, though he’d like it better when there was less cloth between them. Which, ideally, would be _sooner_ rather than later—though his hopes on that score were lowered as Rog went on. “Very fair, very _long_ service. I believe you deserve the same… _thoroughness_.”

That wouldn’t do, but Ecthelion did not despair quite yet. “Ah, but I’ve given you every ounce of my patience, and it will take awhile to replenish.”

“You’ll discover new reserves,” Rog said ominously, and pushed him towards the bed. Ecthelion would have liked to argue more, but then Rog was getting out of his boots and shucking off his open trousers, and Ecthelion hurried to do the same. He stretched out on the large bed as soon as he was rid of them, appreciating the view as Rog cast his shirt aside and came over, carelessly snagging a vial of oil from the dresser-top as he passed it.

Ecthelion half-expected some torturous teasing, but it seemed Rog’s bark was bigger than his bite—so to speak. He knelt on the bed, uncorking the vial. “On your back. Knees up.”

Ecthelion obeyed cheerfully, watching with breathless anticipation as Rog oiled his fingers. If he was lucky—and he was _feeling_ lucky—Rog would kiss him senseless while fucking him with them, or bite him until he was marked all over, or— “Hold still,” Rog murmured, amused. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet.”

“Damn well _start_ , then.”

Rog snorted and pressed a finger into him, all the way to the knuckle, without preamble. _That_ was it, _that_ was what he wanted. Ecthelion bucked his hips and Rog let him, beginning to thrust his hand; Ecthelion made a pleased noise and dropped his head back against the bed, reaching to take himself in hand.

He found his wrist, instead, caught in an iron grip.

“No,” Rog said calmly. He slid another broad finger in alongside the first this time, and Ecthelion had to catch his breath a moment before he could argue.

“But—”

“I said,” Rog cut him off, still perfectly calm, “ _no_.” He dropped Ecthelion’s hand carelessly onto the sheet beside his hip, and Ecthelion grabbed a fistful of the fabric and tried to bide.

Rog curled his fingers, and it seemed briefly like a reward for his obedience. Ecthelion pressed both fists against the bed and tried to tell himself it was enough for now. It did feel good, honestly; he could wait. Probably, he could wait.

At least until Rog had four fingers in him, and _he could not wait._

“Ecthelion.” A warning. He ignored it at his peril, curling his fist around his cock—immediately, the fingers were withdrawn. Ecthelion barely had time to protest before Rog seized both his wrists; he pushed them above his head, pinning them down with his forearm, then went right back to what he’d been doing.

Ecthelion was too worked up even to curse him, desperate for relief. “Please. _Please_ , Rog, you know I can’t come like this, I need—”

“I know,” Rog murmured, and his smile was wicked. “Would you like me to stop?” Ecthelion made a frantic, hopeless noise in his throat, and Rog bent close to him, lowering his voice. “I thought not.”

If he could have gotten off without being touched, that would surely have been the trigger. He shuddered and bucked, but Rog was careful to keep enough space between their bodies that he could not make contact for any extra friction.

“Easy.” Ecthelion could not be easy, wanted to bite him for even suggesting it, but with his arms pinned down he could not lift his head enough to reach. “ _Soon_ ,” Rog promised instead, and that at least made him stop straining against Rog’s hold. He could not wait much longer, though.

Rog withdrew his fingers again, and Ecthelion made a harsh, helpless, _betrayed_ sound from between his teeth. In a moment the pressure was back—cock now, not fingers, _fucking Manwe how was he hard again already,_ his stamina was unfair, everything was unfair, Ecthelion was _dying_ here—

Rog laughed as he slid home, and some part of Ecthelion became aware he’d been speaking aloud. Absolutely _no_ part of Ecthelion cared.

At any rate, it was soon forgotten: Rog shifted to release his wrists, and then made the point absolutely moot by beginning to jerk him off in counterpoint to his thrusts. It was a wonder he lasted past the first touch—and he didn’t by much, in truth, arching off the bed so hard he might well have strained something.

He lost a few moments afterwards to whited-out bliss. When he returned, Rog was bent low over him, lips against his temple, still moving slowly within him. “All right?” he murmured, and Ecthelion made an affirmative noise, closing his eyes and reaching up to wrap his arms over Rog’s broad shoulders. He was, too, at least for a little while—but then his hip began to protest the angle, intruding on the loose-limbed haze he’d been basking in, and he had to revise his answer.

Rog did not seem too put out, easing out of him and sitting back as Ecthelion stretched his legs out with a soft groan. “Which hip?”

“Left,” Ecthelion murmured, and Rog turned him on his side, working at the muscle until it eased, while Ecthelion gritted his teeth and bore it. Despite the ache, it was nice being tended to; nicer still when Rog pushed him onto his other side and settled at his back, rearranging Ecthelion patiently until he could press into him from behind.

“All right?” he said again, and Ecthelion reached back to lay a hand on his thigh.

“Very.”

A quiet moment passed. Ecthelion could be terribly single-minded, though, so it didn’t last. He turned his head, putting Rog into his peripheral vision. “So you see, I _can_ take my time, I’m just not generally inclined to.”

“Still skeptical. I recall quite a lot of begging.” Rog’s voice was lazy and pleased against Ecthelion’s ear as he rolled his hips. “But I’ll give you this much, you did better than I expected.”

Not quite the validation he might have hoped for, but Ecthelion would take it. He dropped his head and let his eyes drift closed again, smiling smugly to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> With many many thank yous to Julia, who is the best at cheerleading as well as listening to me whine about the smut I'm writing. And who also provided me with the title quote, plus another one we found hilariously appropriate:
> 
> "Patience, persistence and perspiration make an unbeatable combination for success."  
> -Napoleon Hill
> 
> "The two most powerful warriors are patience and time."  
> -Leo Tolstoy


End file.
